


Sniper's House of Jump Scares

by cornpony



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Ghost Hunting, M/M, Sniper's POV, Urban Exploration, slightly bloody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornpony/pseuds/cornpony
Summary: Scout and Sniper explore an abandoned hospital.  Miss Pauling goes on a date.





	Sniper's House of Jump Scares

Every year, Truckie throws a Halloween party in the base’s rec room.He always goes out of his way to knock on my camper door and personally invite me to it, and I can’t bear to tell him no, even though I hate parties.I dread it every year—loud music, yelling, soggy refreshments, everybody asking me ‘what’s wrong’ and ‘don’t you want to play such-and-such party game with us.’It’s supposed to be fun, and for non-reclusive folk, it probably is. 

This year’s different, though.Now I’ll have my golden ticket, my ice-breaker, my awkward situation banisher: Scout.We’ll go to the party together, of course we will, and he’ll make sure to divert people’s eyes away from me and onto himself.He’ll make Truckie’s party bearable.

 

****

 

But we decide to skip out on Truckie’s party after all.Scout’s got a great idea for how we can spend our Halloween night instead, and it’s _much_ better than some silly party. 

 

****

 

“Can ya see me alright?”

I peer through the viewfinder of the night-vision camcorder and Scout's sickly-green face grins back at me, his eyes black and shining.In the corner of the screen is a blinking white dot, letting me know that the camera’s recording.

“Yeah,” I say, pausing to adjust the rucksack slung over my shoulder.I’ve got extra camcorder batteries in there, just in case, and a couple other things that might come in handy.“It’s recording.”

Scout smacks at his gum.“Do I look hot?”

I can’t help but hum out a little laugh.“Don’t you always?”

Scout raises his eyebrows and tilts his head.“Yeah, good point.”Then he looks directly into the camera lens and says, “Hey, I’m Scout.”He waves.“And Snipes is gonna be the cameraman for tonight.Say hey, Snipes.”

“Hey,” I deadpan, waving my hand in front of the lens.I’m sure no one but the two of us will ever watch this, so there’s no harm in playing along.Besides, I wouldn’t want to ruin Scout’s fun tonight.He did save me from having to suffer through an office party.

I take my eye away from the viewfinder and look up, just over Scout’s shoulder.The hospital’s front entrance is boarded up, but I expected as much. 

“You gonna do the honors?” I ask him.

In response, he unzips his shoulder bag and pulls a crowbar from its innards.He flashes me a wicked grin.“Think this’ll work?”

“Guess you’ll have to try it ’n’ see.”

“Aw, I get it, makin’ me do all the work around here,” he says with mock irritation.“Stand back and let the _expert_ take care’a this.”

To his credit, he makes quick work of the boards barring the hospital entrance, but I suspect the task was made easier due to rusty nails and rotted wood.Once the last board is pulled free, one of the double-doors creaks open a bit—almost like the building itself is beckoning us in.

Scout looks back at me, pointing to the now-ajar door.“That’s some horror movie shit right there.”

“Yeah,” I agree.“Let’s go in.”

We turn on our flashlights and slip through the door.I’m used to the smell of old, rotten places, but the odor that hits my nose causes my breath to stall in my throat.It’s the typical moldy, dusty, mildewy dampness smell that comes with age, but there’s something else.Something rusty, something sour.Something…

“Ugh,” Scout says, crinkling his nose.“Smells like sum’n died in here.”

Now that he mentions it, I do detect a hint of rotted flesh, but it’s not uncommon for places like this to smell that way.An abandoned building is the perfect spot for rats and raccoons and all manner of other critters to take refuge.Sometimes they crawl off somewhere and die. 

Then again, it could be something else entirely.

“Maybe some _one_ died in here,” I point out.

I look at Scout through the camcorder’s viewfinder to get a good look at his face.His eyes widen, but not out of fear; he’s excited about this new prospect.

“Yeah,” he agrees, nodding fervently, “maybe somebody got _murdered_ in here.”

Ever since Scout discovered the Everything Murder channel on the TV, he’s become obsessed with true crime.In our line of work, we see death dozens, if not hundreds of times a day, but the death we’re exposed to has a unique quality about it—it’s temporary.True crime, on the other hand, is real and permanent.Maybe that’s where the intrigue lies for Scout.Myself, I could take it or leave it.

“Well,” I say, scanning my flashlight over the room, “if someone did get murdered, this would be a good place to do it.”

We’re standing in the hospital’s reception hall-slash-waiting area.Despite the dirt, dried leaves, and bits of broken glass scattered about, the room’s still fairly intact.Built into one of the walls is a long, crescent-shaped desk that a receptionist probably sat behind back when this place was still operational.In front of the desk, cheap aluminum chairs with threadbare cushions are lined up in haphazard rows.Part of me is surprised they haven’t been stolen by now, but then again I suppose there’s not much demand for old flimsy hospital seating. 

“Check it out, babe,” Scout says, shining his light on a coffee table that’s definitely seen better days.The words ‘FUCK YOU’ are carved into its surface in spidery letters, and beside it, ‘look behind you :)’ is written with white spray paint.

“Oh, lovely,” I say with mock enthusiasm.

“Ain’t it?” Scout says.“This’d look good in our living room, don’tcha think?”

The joke, of course, is that we live in a camper van and couldn’t cram another piece of furniture in there if we tried.“We could make room for it, sure.”

I go behind the reception desk to see if I can find anything interesting.There’s a rotary-style telephone, a worn paperback, a rolodex with note cards inside it.I shine my light on the cards.All blank, or maybe faded with age.Nothing worth noting.

Scout comes up beside me, picks up the paperback book, and tosses it back down on the desk without even looking at it.A cloud of dust puffs up in its wake.

“Find anything good?” he asks me.

“Nah,” I say, briefly picking up a stray ink pen and sitting it down again.“You?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, “hold out your hand.”

I do.He drops a warm, smooth object into my palm and I look at it through the camera lens.

“A nickel,” I say flatly.

“Don’t say I never gave ya nothin’,” he says with a wink.

I take a second to try and think of a witty response, but I can’t come up with anything.“Thanks, love,” I say, dropping the nickel into my pocket.

And with that we leave the reception area, heading through a swinging door that takes us into a long, wide hallway.Here the walls are grimy with mold and mildew and the smell of death is much, much stronger.Scout makes a noise of disgust, but the smell doesn’t deter him from ducking into the first room we come to.I follow behind him with the camera at the ready, just in case we stumble into something good. 

“Yikes,” Scout says, the beam of his flashlight roving over a hospital bed.A human-shaped indentation has been worn into the mattress’s padding, like the ghost of a patient might still be sleeping there.The moth-eaten sheets are stained with something dark. 

“Truckie said he heard some bad things about this place,” I say, panning the camera round the rest of the room.“Back when it was still open, I mean.Said the place was nicknamed _Saint Murder’s_ on account of how bad they treated folks in here.”

“For real?” Scout says, grinning.He slides open the single drawer of the bedside table and pulls out a small object I have to squint to see:a heavily-gnawed wooden pencil.He tosses it back into the drawer and shuts it.“Maybe you’ll get to see some ghosts after all.”

“There could definitely be some vengeful spirits here,” I say.

Scout turns in a slow circle, seeming to scrutinize every nook and cranny.“Are there any ghosts in here right now?”

I can’t really tell if he’s asking _me_ that question, or if he’s trying to goad any spirits present to answer him.Probably the former.“Dunno,” I say, reaching into my rucksack.“Let’s find out.”

From my bag, I pull out a palm-sized black box and switch it on.It begins to emit a low, pulsating hum that sounds a bit like television static. 

“Is that the thing Demo let you borrow?” Scout asks, coming over to stand beside me.“What, uh…”He raises a hand like he’s about to twist one of the knobs or punch one of the buttons on the device, but he thinks better of it.“What the hell is it?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I admit, struggling to hold the strange device, a flashlight, and the camcorder in my hands.Scout sees me having technical difficulties and plucks the camera from my hand.

“Here, lemme hold this a minute,” Scout says.He sticks his eye to the viewfinder and points the camera directly at me.

“Don’t—don’t film me,” I sputter, instantly aware of how hideous I must look in my scuffed hiking boots, patched jeans, old tee shirt, and the suede fringe jacket Scout got me for my birthday.Normally I don’t give a single shit about how I look, but I think everyone becomes vain when a camera’s threatening to capture their appearance for all eternity. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Scout protests, but he immediately points the camcorder at the floor.“Nobody’s gonna see it anyway.Unless we get some real ghosts on here, then we might wanna show it to some people.Can I just film you while you’re, uh, whatever you’re gonna do with that thing?”

He makes a good point.“Yeah, arright,” I tell him.“We might get something good when I’m using the spirit box, anyway.”

“ _Spirit box_?” Scout says dully, angling the camcorder back at me.I can feel my face growing hot.Luckily the splotches surfacing on my cheeks and neck won’t show up through night-vision.

“That’s what Demo called it,” I say.The box drones on, making a _hiss-hiss-hiss-hiss_ noise in my hand.“Said we’re supposed to turn it on ’n’ start asking questions, see if something answers us.”

“And, what, we’re supposed to hear ghosts talking to us through that static?”

“Yeah.I think.”

“Awright…”Scout clears his throat.“Are there any ghosts in this room right now?” he yells.“If you’re a ghost, and you’re in here, say sum’n into the magic ghost box and talk to us.”

The spirit box continues its _hiss-hiss-hiss-hiss_ ing.No response.

He repeats the question, louder and slower this time, but still nothing.I knew it would be unlikely to actually make contact with anyone, but I was hoping the spirit box might pick up on an interesting noise or distorted static or something.Ah, well.Maybe it’ll detect something in a different room.

I make a motion to turn off the box, but before I do, Scout stops me.“Hang on a sec,” he says, “you try askin’ some questions.Maybe, uh…since I wasn’t actually _holding_ the ghost box, they weren’t listening to me.Or sum’n like that.Just ask if there’s any ghosts in here, see what happens.”

I’d be more keen on the idea if I weren’t being filmed, but Scout could be right.Maybe the entities in here (if there are any) can only communicate with the holder of the spirit box.Or maybe they just don’t feel like talking to Scout. 

“Worth a shot,” I say.Then, with a voice far sharper than I intended:“Is there anyone here who’d like to speak with us?”

The spirit box keeps on hissing, but as if in answer to my question, I hear a very definite, hollow _thud_ sounding from somewhere deep within the hospital.My pulse quickens.Scout’s eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” Scout mutters.“Ask it sum’n else.”

I know it’s probably nothing, but I’m anxious all the same.My voice is slow and measured.“If there’s anyone in this room—“

I don’t get a chance to finish that question before I hear another thump, this time even louder.As much as I’d like for the noise to be otherworldly, I’ve got to be rational; most likely, the sound of our voices has agitated some kind of animal, causing a kerfuffle.Or perhaps there are other folks out exploring this place as well; there are more ways to get into the building besides prying the boards off the front door, I’m sure.

Or it could be ghosts. 

No matter who or what caused the sound, it’s wise to proceed with caution.I switch off the spirit box and jam it back into my bag.

“That came from somewhere below us,” I mutter.

“ _The morgue_ ,” Scout hisses, a toothy grin nearly splitting his face in half.

I nod, trying to look serious.“Could be.Want to go down there ’n’ take a look?”

I can barely see his eyes in this near-darkness, but they seem to be glittering.“Ain’t that what we came here for?”

He hands the camcorder back over to me and leads the way out of the room, back into the damp and moldy hallway. At the end of the hall we find a door with a little window cut into it, and below that window is a pegboard sign reading ‘STAIR ELL.’The letter W in ‘STAIRWELL’ has fallen off. Could be stolen, but I reckon the thief would’ve pilfered the rest of the letters as well.Who knows. 

Scout reaches for the door handle. Another clattering thud sounds from somewhere below, and now there’s no doubt in my mind it’s coming from somewhere beyond this stairwell. It might not actually be coming from the _morgue—_ though that would be lovely—but it’s certainly coming from somewhere downstairs. I don’t feel fear, because situations like this, situations where it would be _reasonable_ to feel that way, rarely affect me. Now if there were a grumpy supermarket cashier waiting for me down there, and I couldn’t remember if I’d brought enough cash with me to pay for all of my groceries or not...that would be truly terrifying.

No, this isn’t fear I feel.Merely caution, a reason to give pause. 

I take Scout’s hand in mine, getting hold of it before he can open the door.“We should be careful,” I mutter.More thumps echo up from the stairwell, this time accompanied by a heavy scraping noise. 

I half-expect Scout to make a cheeky comment— _whassa matter, are ya sca-ared?—_ but he doesn’t.Instead, he quirks his head to the side, thinking. “Yeah,” he agrees, matching my hushed tone.“I mean, best-case scenario, we got a real loud ghost down there, but it _could_ be like a...”He grimaces.“...Big dog, or sum’n.”

Scout’s not much of a fan of dogs, not since one chased him down and bit him when he was a kid; he’s got a jagged scar near the inside of his wrist to show for it.I suppose a dog could be making all those thumps and bumps, but it’s more likely to be a rodent of some kind.

Or it could be ghosts.

“Right,” I say with a nod.I switch off the camcorder and stuff it back into my rucksack, and then I pull a slim, nondescript pistol from the holster at my hip.Scout draws his gun, as well—it’s some sort of flashy revolver, I think—from the waistband of his jeans.I always tell him he’ll shoot his arse off if he keeps putting it there, but he says he’s done it that way for fifteen years and nothing bad’s happened to him yet.I’d be more worried about it, but I suppose if he does shoot his arse off, Doc can patch him up afterward.Maybe.

Once our guns are drawn, it’s like a switch has been flipped in our heads.Only a moment ago we were doing a bit of urban exploration with some ghost-hunting on the side, but now we’re back at work:guns drawn, backs stiffened, all our senses on high alert.Scout eases the door open, careful not to let it squeak on its hinges, and slips through the small opening he allows himself.I go through behind him. 

The metal stairs are rusty, but they look like they’ll hold our weight.Scout puts one foot on the uppermost stair, testing it out, and everything seems fine. We slink down the long, seemingly endless flight of stairs, and already I’m beginning to regret this decision.I dread having to walk back up all these stairs.Not only that, but I can’t very well hold a gun, a flashlight, _and_ a camcorder, so if we do happen upon something supernatural, we won’t have anything to show for it. 

But when we get to the bottom of the stairs, Scout flattens his back against the wall beside the door and I get a good view of his face.He’s obviously enjoying this little outing of ours, judging by his look of utter delight.I put my back against the wall on the opposite side of the door, my pistol poised to fire.We take one last look at each other before simultaneously switching off our flashlights—no matter what we’re dealing with, we want to use the element of surprise in our favor, and we can’t very well do that with two big glowing sticks in our hands.Darkness consumes us.

So we wait.And we listen.

The next sound I hear sends a shock of fear blooming in my chest.There’s no mistaking what it is.

Scout’s breath hitches.He hears it too, but neither of us dare to speak, or even to move.We stay quiet, hoping to hear it again.

And we do.It’s—

“A lady,” Scout whispers, so quietly that I barely hear him.

“Yes,” I breathe. 

It’s certainly a human voice, of that I’m certain; it’s got a feminine lilt to it, high-pitched and nasally.Whether it’s the voice of an actual _living_ human or that of an earthbound spirit is yet to be known.

“Let’s look,” Scout whispers. 

I’m trying to think of something to say in response, something to the effect of _maybe we ought to stay put for a tic and listen some more, just in case this really isn’t a ghost we’re dealing with here,_ but before I can come up with anything good to say, I feel Scout’s body slotting against mine, his back against my chest and his head tucked beneath my chin.When we go on missions together—“couples missions,” Scout calls them—we often stand in wait for our targets like this, occupying as little space as possible with the added benefit of a unique cuddling experience.He moved with such stealth that I didn’t even hear him sneaking his way over to me.Spy would be proud of him for that.

By now my eyes have adjusted to the darkness.There’s a tiny slit of light coming through the doorway, harsh and yellow.The power’s been cut to this entire place, so it’s likely a lantern or a flashlight or something—that, combined with the voice I just heard, is leading me to believe that there’s another abandoned-building spelunker down here with us.

“Probably just some kid,” I mutter in Scout’s ear.After taking a moment to rationalize things, I’m beginning to think it’s just a ne’er-do-well teen out for some fun.It _is_ Halloween night, after all.I don’t think our guns will be necessary, but I don’t put it back into its holster just yet.

Scout tilts his head up.“Could be a ghost in there, though.”He reaches out and points a finger at another pegboard sign, this one reading “MORGUE.”If there’s any ghosts at all in this place, the morgue’s probably where they’d be.

Only one way to find out.“Let’s have a look.”

Unlike the door we came through to get down here, the door to the morgue has an actual handle on it.I curl my hand round the handle and turn it as slowly as I can possibly manage so I don’t make any noise with it, then pull the door open to a tiny crack.Without hesitation, Scout leans forward and eagerly sticks his eye to the crack, peering into the morgue.

I hardly have time to pry my hand off the doorknob before Scout whirls around, his fist crammed against his mouth to keep from crying out.Now I’m alarmed, my heart beating fast and hard in my ears.What could he have possibly seen?

He grabs the collar of my fringe jacket and pulls my head down, pressing his lips near my ear.“ _Miss Pauling’s in there!_ ” he hisses.

Miss Pauling?But that doesn’t make sense.The voice I heard was feminine, but it didn’t sound anything like Miss—

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear a smock?” a voice says from within the morgue—now _that’s_ Miss Pauling’s voice, for sure.“I brought an extra one, so you, um…don’t get blood all over your blouse.”

I lean over Scout and put my own eye to the crack in the door, wanting visual confirmation.Yep, that’s Miss Pauling in there, all right, wearing a jade green surgeon’s smock and a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves.Behind her, lying on an examination table, is a body bag with a single gnarled hand sticking up from it.Miss Pauling’s getup, along with the almost comical-looking body bag, makes me think for a moment that this might be some sort of Halloween party Scout and I have walked into uninvited.But then the odor of rotted flesh hits my nose and I know the body in that bag is very real and very dead.

At Miss Pauling’s comment, the owner of the high-pitched, nasally voice lets out a laugh.“Oh, this old thing?I was going to throw it out, anyway, I don’t mind if it gets a little dirty.Besides…”

There’s the sound of boots squeaking against tile and the owner of the strange voice comes into view.She looks young, maybe in her late 20s or early 30s, and she’s got white-blonde hair cropped close to her face, heavy eye makeup, dark lipstick.She’s wearing a leather jacket over some kind of corset-looking thing, or maybe that’s supposed to be a very short singlet top, I’m not sure.It’s purple, I know that.

The mystery woman comes within inches of Miss Pauling and reaches her hands up, and for a moment I’m worried she aims to strangle Miss Pauling, but she doesn’t.Instead, she puts her hands on either side of her chest, pressing her breasts together in a teasing gesture.

“I wouldn’t want to cover up the girls,” the blonde says, letting her hands fall back to her sides.Poor Miss Pauling can’t do anything except stare straight at the blonde’s cleavage and laugh nervously. 

“You’re too cute,” the blonde says, her dark-painted lips pulling into a grin.This effectively reduces Miss Pauling to a flustered mess of muttered words and more nervous laughter.Clearly Miss Pauling is nervous around this lady, but it’s a good sort of nervousness.She looks…happy, for once.

The blonde strides back over to the examination table, giving Miss Pauling some time to collect herself, and unzips the body bag.“What’re we doing with him?” the blonde asks.“Since we dragged him down to this old hospital morgue, I thought you might have something special in mind.”

Miss Pauling pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and walks over to the blonde, standing beside her.“Not really,” she says, peeling the body bag away from the corpse with obvious familiarity.“I just had some free time tonight, which _never_ happens, so I thought…why not change things up a little bit?”

“You need to have fun every once in awhile,” the blonde says.“This place has a good vibe to it, I can tell.Here, let me help you with that.” 

She goes to the corpse’s lower half and frees his feet from the bag.With the two of them working together, it only takes a few seconds for them to get the corpse laid out on the table and the body bag tossed off to the side.

“Where should we start?” the blonde asks, drumming her fingernails against the table.“Are we going to yank his teeth out, maybe burn his fingerprints off?”

I can’t see Miss Pauling’s face, but I imagine she looks beyond delighted.“Have you done this before?” Miss Pauling says suggestively, and in that moment I feel a bit of strange pride—she’s _flirting back_ with this woman.Good on her.

“Maybe once or twice,” says the blonde airily.“Let’s just say I’m not very squeamish.”

“In that case, we’ll start with the arms.”

Miss Pauling reaches beneath the table and pulls out two bone saws, handing one over to the blonde.When they start hacking up the dead bloke’s arms, I decide I’ve seen enough for the time being; I take advantage of the grinding, squelching noises to ease the door closed undetected.

The very second I let loose of the door handle, Scout turns round, buries his head into my jacket, and makes an odd little noise.Ah, piss.I think he’s upset.He pined for Miss Pauling for a long time, though it was no big secret she was gay and he’d never have a chance with her to begin with.Scout’s not quite as straight as he once thought, either, come to find out—still, he might have some feelings for her lingering somewhere.

But when he tilts his head up to look at me, he’s quite the opposite of upset.“Oh my God,” he whispers, “this is so freakin’ crazy, I _know_ that lady!”

“The blonde woman?” I whisper back, furrowing my brow. 

Scout nods excitedly.“Fried chicken girl!”

The furrow in my brow deepens.“Who?”

“I dunno her real name, but every time I go to the fried chicken place, she’s in there.First couple times I saw her, I tried to put the moves on her, but she wasn’t into me.”

“Maybe she ain’t interested in men,” I point out, inclining my head toward the door.

“Ya think this is Miss P’s idea of a hot date?” Scout asks.He looks happy for her—not upset, not jealous.He’s moved on.Relief washes over me.

“Seems right up her alley, don’t it?” 

“It’s kinda romantic,” Scout says, “in a super gross way.”

For whatever reason, I can’t help but give him a quick peck on the forehead.“Let’s leave ‘em alone, yeah?”

He seems to catch my drift—Miss Pauling looks like she could use some privacy.“Wanna get outta here?” Scout asks me.

I nod.“Yeah.”

 

****

 

Scout holds up the bottom of the chain-length fence so I can crawl under it.Scout himself had no trouble squirreling up and over the top of it, of course.Once we’re both on the other side, we head over to Scout’s car, which we parked behind a small copse of trees. 

We toss our bags into the backseat and toss ourselves into the front, Scout situating himself behind the wheel. 

“Well,” I say, buckling my seatbelt, “Saint Murder’s may not be haunted after all.”

“We didn’t get a whole lot of a chance to look, though,” Scout says, clicking on his seatbelt as well.“We were only in there for like half an hour.” 

I could be overthinking things, but it sounds like Scout’s disappointed in our little outing.But the night’s not over yet.

“It’s only ten-thirty,” I say after a cursory glance at my wristwatch.“We could, er…catch the end of Truckie’s Halloween party.If y’want.”

He starts up the engine with a twist of his wrist, then turns to look at me, beaming.“For real?You’d go?”

I don’t want to, but Scout does a lot of things for me that _he_ doesn’t want to do.Fair’s fair.Compromising. 

“It ain’t a costume party, is it?” I ask, wincing a little.

Scout drives us out of the thicket and back onto the paved highway.A car passes us—a police car with the word ‘SHERIFF’ painted on the side of it.I see brake lights in the rearview mirror as the police car slows, but it doesn’t turn round or flash its blue lights at us.Reckon a cop’s got better things to do on Halloween night than to pull us over for trespassing. 

Once that small crisis is averted, Scout breathes a small sigh of relief.“Nah,” he grumbles, “not this year.‘Cause last year, me and Hardhat and Pyro were the only three who actually _wore_ a costume and we felt like dummies.”

“I remember that,” I say.“You were dressed up like a…was it a wizard?”

“Yeah, an elf wizard.We dressed up like our GnG characters and everybody except us thought it was dumb.”

“I thought you looked nice,” I say, thinking back on his long leather boots, his tunic with that beaded belt cinched at the waist, and the enormous, over-the-top wizard’s hat perched on his head.Since he was one of only three folks who wore a costume, he got a lot of odd looks and several questions were asked about what on earth he was wearing.I was watching him from my hiding spot in the corner of the room, quietly suffering from secondhand embarrassment for him.But the thing of it was, he wasn’t embarrassed at all—he loved the attention.He was so animated when he talked, he smiled and he laughed and he knew all the right things to say.I found myself wishing he’d come over and start up a conversation with _me_.

And he did.

“Hey, you were lookin’ pretty good, too,” Scout says.“You had that real nice blazer and that turtleneck sweater on, remember?”

“When Truckie said to ‘dress up’ for the party, I thought he meant _dress up_.”

Scout laughs.“Guess it was a good thing, though, ‘cause it made me come over and talk to you.I’d never seen you without your aviators before.”

Since I was under the assumption that last year’s party was a semi-formal affair, I’d swapped my yellow-tinted shooting glasses for my normal pair.Scout calls them my Buddy Holly glasses.I don’t wear them all that often.

“I’d never seen _you_ with pointy elf ears before,” I say, smiling hazily at the memory.

“I still got that outfit, y’know,” he says suggestively.“Maybe I’ll surprise you one night and put it on.”

I consider it for a moment.“I think I might like that.”

He takes one hand off the wheel and gives my thigh a slight squeeze.“You’re a dirty bird, Snipes.”

We both have a little chuckle at that, but once the silence fills the car again, I have to say something.“You’re not upset about, er…about Miss Pauling and that other woman?”

“No,” he says, confusion tinging the word.“Why would I be upset?”But then he answers his own question.“Oh, I mean…yeah, I used to have this big crush on Miss P, I guess.But y’know what?The more and more I think about her, I…”

From the corner of my eye I see him lick his lips, a sure sign that he’s nervous.I can’t imagine what he’s about to say.Maybe I don’t want to know. 

“Miss P means a hell of a lot to me, she literally saved my life,” he says.“And…I do love her.”

My face, my chest, and my arms feel like they’ve been stuffed full of ice.I’m getting dizzy.I should have seen this coming, there’s no way someone like him could have actual romantic feelings for someone like me, I don’t know why I ever thought—

“But I don’t _love-_ love her,” he says quickly, “like I’m not _in_ love with her.I love her like she’s one of my brothers, like she’s family.Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” I say, letting go of a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding in.“She probably saved _all_ our lives, one way or another.Whether she knows it or not.I owe her one—or two, or three.”

Scout nods.“Me too.”

There’s a few beats of silence between us as we listen to the tires humming along the pavement.Then Scout says, “I feel bad for her, though.”

“So do I,” I agree.“She’s always so busy.Bending over backward, trying to make the Administrator happy.”

“I know,” Scout says.“She tries too hard for that old bag.I hope the thing with fried chicken girl _was_ a date.”

Fried chicken girl.I wonder what that woman’s real name is.“Well.If it wasn’t a date, maybe she’s found herself a friend, at least.”

“Yeah, apparently fried chicken girl’s been around a dead body before.Miss P could actually talk to her about work stuff.”

“She sort of made it sound like she’d offed a couple blokes before, didn’t she?”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Scout says, nodding.“And you know Miss P don’t care whether that lady’s killed a buncha guys or not.”

“She’d probably prefer it, actually.”

Scout laughs.“Hey, yeah, they could be murderesses together.”

“Murderesses,” I repeat.“Don’t you watch a TV show about murderesses?”

“There’s so many of em,” he says.“Ya got _Lady Killers, Drop Dead Gorgeous, A Woman Scorned...”_

He goes on to list a few more show titles, then he says, “We could go back to the camper and watch some good murder TV.Y’know, instead of going to that party.”

He’s offering me an out.If I was completely against going, I could say so right now and he wouldn’t hold it against me.He’d be disappointed, though—and I think I’d be disappointed in myself for ruining his evening. 

For Scout, I can suffer through a few hours of forced social interaction.

“Nah,” I say, “we’ll drop in on the party, why not.”

Scout’s face lights up.“I was hoping you’d say that.We won’t stay real long, I swear.And when we leave the party and we go back to the camper, I’ll, uh…”He clicks his tongue, thinking.“…I’ll give ya a back rub, how’s that sound, huh?”

“Only if you wear the wizard costume while you’re doing it,” I say, biting back a smile.

Briefly, Scout takes his eyes off the road to look at me.Through the light of the passing street lamps, I see his crooked smile and the flash of amusement in his eyes—he’s looking at _me_ that way, I think stupidly.Seeing him now, I don’t know how I could ever think he still had feelings for Miss Pauling.Sometimes I forget it’s actually possible for my feelings to be reciprocated by someone else.

“I think I can do that for ya,” he says, his grin widening to show off his buck teeth.Scout doesn’t like his buck teeth, he thinks they make him look goofy.I think they’re nice.

We’re nearly back to the base now.The abandoned hospital was only a few miles off, so it didn’t take too long to get there and back.I do wish we’d caught a glimpse of something paranormal, but it was interesting enough as it was—especially considering what we saw down in the morgue.Next time I see Miss Pauling, I’ll make a point to ask her about her new friend.

I hope it works out for her.She deserves it.

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY this was supposed to be written in time for Halloween, but I'm 16 days too late ):
> 
> Also sorry about the title, I spent days and days trying to think of a good one but I couldn't come up with anything


End file.
